


Butterfly Culture

by planetstardream



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M, how the fuck you tag on mobile, i guess?, idk it has shades of it, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetstardream/pseuds/planetstardream
Summary: Think to yourself.How much do you know?He says he knows, but hes lost in his thoughts.But it's ok, he's used to it.(flatmates au/spinoff, i suppose)





	Butterfly Culture

**Author's Note:**

> um vent fic i guess? i just wrote whatever tbh  
> i feel like shit so sorry if its a bunch of nonsense  
> if this had a plot then basically ouma decided swimming in a lake in the winter was a good idea but you can interpret it as w/e  
> takes place in flatmates au but this isnt canon, its 100% vent

Stretch your wings.

  
Fan out.

  
One, two, three.

  
Close in.

  
One, two, three.

  
A quiet turn of the head. A sleeping form, and a gentle friend. It all feels so surreal.  
Nothing about this made sense. Nothing about him made sense.

  
Sometimes he wished he was a different being. Maybe a human? They're no different from demons, save life span. No, that's not right. Sometimes he didn’t know which was the better choice. But that’s ok, he was used to it.

  
Slip outside, lose yourself in the silent solitude of the night. It's warm enough, why not dip in a lake?

  
The water felt like his thoughts, bitter and cold, stabbing through to his core. But that’s ok, he was used to it. He kept swimming. It was like playing with fire.

  
Flirt with the alarm, until it became too dangerous.

  
His body shuddered as he pulled himself free from the icy prison, crumpling to the permafrost-like earth, grounding him to reality. It was ok, he was used to it. He felt himself slip away, into nothingness.

  
He could vaguely recall when he was ok. How long has that been? Maybe he never was ok, and everything he knew was a lie.

  
An elaborate lie.

  
So tricky, even he couldn't detect it.

  
But that's ok, he was used to it.

 

 

Was he in heaven? How absurd. Yet the warmth he felt was too gentle to be hell.

  
Bring yourself to reality. Look around.

  
There's something for everyone.

  
The lights of nature's love, crackling softly, cradling him and keeping him warm without contact. That was left to the cotton cocooning him.

  
Stretch your wings.

  
Later.

  
Take your time.

  
No one's going anywhere.

  
He faintly hears a gentle coo, lulling him to unconsciousness.

  
Hush now, quiet now.

  
A lullaby he's grown fond of. Despite it being one appropriate for young children. But it’s ok, he's used to it.

  
Too used to it.

  
He doesn’t know if he minds.

  
He hears the lullaby, gently weighting him down. He feels something warm weave through chilled locks, avoiding the bone. Eyes he didn’t realize were opened fell shut.

  
His body goes limp as his mind lingers.

  
He feels like he's looking at himself sleep from outside his body.

  
He sees his beloved, and his tiny friend comfort his frozen form.

  
He thinks to himself. He hears the lullaby. He feels the calming touches. He wonders if he should embrace it.

 

 

It was warm so he stayed on the roof. He stared at that chicken scratch in the sky, attempting to tell stories. He wondered if he could pull pieces of them down. Keep them, delete them, rearrange them.

  
Tell his story.

  
What kind of story did he even have?

  
Would it even be accurate?

  
How much of it would be true history, how much a tall tale? He thinks about it alot.

  
But it’s ok, he's used to it.

  
Slip inside what he calls home, and pay attention to his beloved. He felt mischievous.

  
It dies at his beloved's touch.

  
Gentle like a lullaby.

  
It’s like a cage, the way it ensnares him.

  
Butterfly kisses against his thoughts.

  
Loving feathers tickling his skin.

  
Vines devoid of thorns, caressing his very soul.

Stretch your wings.

Sing.

 

 

He can't. His voice died long ago.

It's not ok, he's not used to it.

  
It will never be ok.

  
(Or will it...?)

 

 

Break the silence.

An aging sound.

A soothing bell.

Sing with him, butterfly.

 

 

"It's ok."


End file.
